


ZevWarden Week 2020

by ollifree



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (just for the second chapter the rest are safe), M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, in the third chapter, other party members are here but you know how it is, sorry guys i tried to stop it, suicidal ideation snuck its way back in for the sixth chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollifree/pseuds/ollifree
Summary: Fills for the 2020 ZevWarden week. Chapters will feature the prompt as the title and are generally non-linear.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 20
Kudos: 9
Collections: ZevWarden Week 2020





	1. Eye of the Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A Dalish whore, thank you very much. It was my sole distinction amongst the other elven boys in the whorehouse.”

Zevran had mistaken the Dalish warden for a silent man. Once they had come across the clan they searched for in the forest, Terron had hardly stopped talking. Zevran _wished_ he could understand what words the elves spoke. He thought he almost could. Like he was one sound away from knowing what the words that were almost a song meant.

“Mahariel!” A brown elf appeared between two of the landships. Terron beamed when he saw her.

“Vana!”

She ran over and the two crossed wrists with each other. The woman was a good head taller than Terron and she tipped his face towards her, clearly admiring his tattoos. She asked a question and Terron held up the little and ring fingers of his hand as he answered. Her eyes scanned the group with him. A quizzical expression appeared on her face. When she asked her next question, Terron’s own expression stiffened. The pair spoke a few moments more, and she turned to the rest of them. Common sounded clumsy on her tongue after the conversation in elvhen.

“My name is Vana. I used to be part of the Sabrae clan with Mahariel. He tells me you’re going to track the beasts? I will help you learn the forest.”

Help them she did. Her husband, a member of this clan and the reason she had left her own, had been attacked by the werewolves and she was keen to see him well again. “Maps won’t do you any good,” Vana told them as she drew a likeness of the bowls of flame Zevran had seen around the camp in the dirt. “If you get lost, look for the mage fire. If you don’t see any _don’t move_. Our experienced hunters roam for days if they go the wrong way. There aren’t any permanent landmarks,” her tone was apologetic as she looked to Terron. “There _is_ a friendly spirit that inhabits an oak. It’s the only one this deep into the forest. You will know when you find it.”

Terron asked a question in their own language. Zevran recognized the word _shemlen_.

Vana nodded and smoothed over her drawing of the fire. She drew an overlapping pair of intersecting lines in its place. Enunciating clearly, she indicated, “South. West. East. North.”

Both Vana and Terron agreed all of them together would be too many to safely traverse the changing woods. A smaller party would seek out the werewolves while the majority of them would stay behind to aid the Dalish in guarding their camp.

“Might I come?” Zevran asked. He’d be better put to use doing something practical than to remain behind in soured childhood fantasies.

Terron nodded then, of all things, asked, “Is everything alright?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Zevran laughed.

“You’ve been...quiet since they found us.”

“Ah,” Zevran waved Terron’s bizarre concern for him away. “I do not understand your fine language, is all. I can’t join in on the fun.”

Terron stared at him long enough it became disconcerting. “The Trade tongue is still hard for me. But, I think I could teach you our sign language if you like.” He gave a slight smile. “Since you like staring so much.

For a moment, Zevran was unable to reply. Least of all for that he’d been unaware Terron had noticed his watching. “I...yes, I rather would.” His thanks was cut off by a short whistle. One of the human wardens, Lanni, approached with her massive hound.

“You’d better take him with you. I think Zathrian will feel better with him gone.” Indeed, Zevran could see the Keeper glaring at the mabari from several tents away. Lanni knelt and took the dog's muzzle in her hands. “Helios. You _listen to Terron_ while I’m not there.”

“Will he?” Terron asked, not seeming overly concerned at the prospect of controlling a beast whose head came up to his chest.

“He’ll know your tone of voice, even if he doesn’t know the words. Actually. Alistair!” The young man glanced over from a conversation with Leliana. “I’m sending Helios with you! Make sure Terron knows mabari command words if he pretends not to understand them in elvhen!”

The smaller party wound up consisting of the dwarven warden Nasi, Sten, and Morrigan. “Zevran,” Terron said as they gathered around him for a final run-down. “Watch my hands.”

* * *

“You did _what_?” Terron’s voice was low, full of a menace Zevran would not have expected him to bear towards any of them.

Wasn’t that an odd thought? That Zevran would truly consider himself such after a scant few weeks?

Leliana and Alistair shuffled uneasily. It was the former who broke first. “Cammen was so pained by his love for her! Besides, it’s a bit silly isn’t it? That they can’t—”

“Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence.” Terron hissed. He turned his glare on Alistair. “You helped her?”

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… It’s not like I _needed_ the extra one.”

“With winter coming? When you were told before we left we’d be giving the pelts we skinned to the clan?” Terron paused for a rebuttal, then went on icily. “We’re staying the night because we were asked to. First thing tomorrow, we leave. Come help us plan the journey.”

Leliana couldn’t keep containing herself. “But! It was just so _romantic_!”

“Very romantic,” Terron spat scornfully, “when one of them can feed neither himself or his clan because he is a _child_.” He beckoned Alistair with a finger. Zevran debated over consoling Leliana, but decided it wasn’t his place.

* * *

“Alistair’s right about going to Redcliffe first,” Lanni said. “There’s a trade route there that can take us straight to Orzammar. I’d rather not go too near Denerim until we have Eamon’s support. I don’t doubt he will,” she reaffirmed to assuage Alistair, “but we’ll fare better with allies in the city. Does that work for the rest of you?”

“ _I don’t care_ , so long as I’m on the opposite side of the lake from the Tower.”

Lanni nodded to Caedan. “Fair enough. Nasi?”

“Fine by me.”

“Terron?”

They were shemlen. Stupid, _ignorant_ shemlen.

“Terron?”

He stretched forward for a better look at the map. “We will reach Redcliffe faster, right? We should go where we can get help sooner.”

As he thought they would, the clan held a celebration that night. Terron waited in the shadows until the figure he’d watched for ran by. “Gheyna.”

“Hm? Sabrae! _Ma serannas_!”

Terron acknowledged her thanks with the flick of an ear. “I hear Cammen presented a wolf’s pelt?”

Her face lit up. “You heard already? He still hasn’t presented it formally. He wants to wait until the excitement’s died down.”

“You don’t find it strange?”

“Find...what?”

“He’s been unable to make a kill, yet when your Keeper has ordered hunters not to enter the forest he manages to present a pelt?” Gheyna had taken his hands when she thanked him. Now she dropped them, slowly stepping back. Terron angled his gaze curiously. “Does he have to have _vallaslin_ for you to consider him? You’re fond of him. Shouldn’t you offer encouragement instead of demands?”

“I—”

“There you are!” Vana grabbed Terron’s arm and began hauling him away. “Sorry, Gheyna, I’m taking our _lethallin_! Henin’s been _begging_ to meet you. We won’t get to see you until the next Arlathvhen! You still have to tell me why Tamlen isn’t with you!”

 _Yes._ Terron supposed he did.


	2. La Petite Mort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I’m not going to die. It’s always the Grey Wardens that die. Did you not read stories as a child? The hero always dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway have you listened to "Epiphany" by The Trans-Siberian Orchestra? You should *really* listen to "Epiphany" by The Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

“Terron?” Lanni called. Nasi did her best not to look. She’d been spared it during the Blight thanks to Ferelden’s ever-present clouds, but it turned out that on the Surface they could go so high in the mountains they could see over the tops of trees and be _completely_ surrounded by sky.

Mostly, though, she didn’t want to look because of Terron. If that _was_ still Terron.

The corruption had blackened the viens up the right side of his face to the hairline and turned the eye white. Despite how carefully he braided his hair, there were times they could see where it had fallen out in clumps. As Caedan, reunited with them by independently chasing the same dead-end lead had put it: he looked like shit.

At first, it seemed like Terron hadn’t heard. Then one of his ears rotated slowly and he turned.

“We’re going to decide which path to take tomorrow,” Lanni’s voice was strained, but she hit the kindness she was going for. “Do you want to join?”

The relief that went over the group when he stepped away from the precipice he’d been staring over was palpable.

No, Nasi decided as the group consulted, there was still enough of Terron there. But, one look at him and even the most sheltered deshyr could tell he was fading. It wasn’t an easy talk she’d have to have, but Nasi was known for doing the stuff that wasn’t easy.

The group that searched for a cure to the corruption was a far different one than when they had stopped the Blight. The only warden they were missing was Alistair, who’d stayed behind because Ferelden needed a monarch and no one had expected it would take them this long or this far. Zevran was with them, of course. So was Lanni’s mabari. Oghren, too. The rest of them were wardens Terron and Caedan had recruited when they’d started rebuilding the order. Nasi had met the three of them on different occasions throughout the years, and had deemed them not terrible. There was also a member of Terron’s old clan, an elf named Merrill, who’d come along when the newer wardens had gone to find another one of them in the Marches.

They, thankfully, agreed on a path that went further into the mountains.

Morning came early that high on the Surface. Helios was scrabbling impatiently at the dirt when Terron suddenly winced and thick, black blood dripped from his nose. He set his fingers to it, drew them away, and finally said in a voice that might as well have been commenting on the weather, “That’s new.”

Nasi looked at Caedan—most of them looked at Caedan. Caedan knew blood. Blood was his _thing_. _Corrupted_ blood was his thing. He merely looked at Terron, a bent finger on his chin, and went, “Hm.”

Conversation. Conversation _now_.

“Zevran, guard the rear with me.”

She knew he was going to refuse, but once he had Terron said dryly, “You heard her.”

It was something that had started between them a few months after the Blight. Nasi had final say because she was Paragon. Lanni and Alistair had final say because they were Queen and King. Terron had final say because he was the _Warden_ Commander. Caedan had final say because he was a blood mage and could make them do it anyway. And they owed him for none of them dying with the Archdemon.

Nasi let the rest of the group draw ahead a safe distance before she began. “So. What’s your plan?”

“For what, dear Nasi?”

Nasi resisted the urge to growl. Barely.

“For _this_ ,” she gestured at the group ahead of them.

“Ah,” Zevran smiled. “It depends on how quickly we find the cure, of course. I imagine he will wish to return to Vigil’s Keep, whatever else he plans to do. Much as you will wish to fly straight to Leliana, I assume.”

 _Stop deflecting._ Nasi wanted to grab him by the front of his clothes and snap it at him. This was one of those times anger _wasn’t_ the answer. “You know what I mean.” She just kept her voice level to not draw attention. “What’s your plan for if he turns into a ghoul?”

Zevran didn’t _quite_ frown, but this one of the few times there was no smile on his face.

“Look, I get it,” Nasi quickly went on. “I _have_ it, so I know I don’t get _exactly_ what it’s like for you. _But_ , I do know that that’s not something he’d want. So if he gets to that point I’ll—”

“No.”

Nasi pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes with a groan. “Come _on_ , Zev. _You’re_ the _pragmatic_ one.”

His voice was a soft hiss. “How lucky Leliana is that you do not think this is a conversation we have already had.”

Zevran had stopped walking. Nasi had to look back at him. She’d never seen this look on his face. Wouldn’t have _thought_ to see it. A cold, focused, undeniable fury that was threatening to break under the slightest strain to overwhelming grief.

“You _will not_ take his life. I will.”


	3. "Oh Maker"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I grew up amongst Antivan whores, men and women both. My introduction to the subject of sex was, shall we say, rather practical.”

Zevran _tsked_ softly as he eyed Terron sympathetically. “You look so tired, my dear. I think I know what it is you need.”

“A horse?”

Zevran couldn’t help the laughter that spilled from him at the warden’s tone. “I am afraid I shall have to disappoint on that front. No. Let us retire to your tent, or mine if you prefer. You have not known a massage until you have known an Antivan whore’s massage.”

“Oh?” Terron grinned wickedly as if Zevran had just offered a challenge. “You’ll have to be good to beat what our First can do.”

Zevran feigned offence with a hand on his chest. “I assure you, dear Warden, I am _the best_ at what I do.”

Terron leaned in, the low light of mischief in his eyes. “Suppose you’ll have to prove it, then.”

“Wonderful!” Zevran clapped. “Ah, before we go on. I had a few thoughts for what we might do afterwards if you are agreeable.” He was stared at just long enough he thought he may have unintentionally overstepped some unknown boundary of their flirting.

“I don’t think I’ve been speaking Common long enough for euphemisms.”

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Zevran chuckled. “Your answer?”

Terron regarded him a moment longer. “I think so. Depends on how good your massage is.” Giving Zevran’s shoulder a playful check, he crossed part way to the other side of the camp. “Caedan! You awake?”

“I _guess_?”

“I’m turning in early. Take the rest of my watch for me?”

Caedan’s gaze slipped to Zevran, and the fire caught the roll of his eyes. “Sure.” A new light blazed to life beside him as he commented, “Have fun, you two.”

Terron led them to his tent, and Zevran couldn’t help a reflexive look around. Wolf pelts were piled in the center, a small metal bowl hung from the top of the tent above them. The warden’s pack and a few smaller pouches lay off to the side. Terron set his bow down by the pack and lit the twigs in the bowl, filling the tent with a soft glow. “Pick a spot,” he told Zevran as he started working at the wrappings on his arms and legs. As Zevran set to making a suitable nest of the furs, Terron set his wraps beside the bow and placed his finger guards attop them.

“Ah, Warden?” Zevran held up several long claws attached to a leg too long to be a wolf’s. “Isn’t this…?”

“I claimed one, before we aided Zathrian’s clan.” Terron helped Zevran pull the massive werewolf pelt from beneath the others. “A hunt like that demands something to show for it.”

It was quite the trophy. A little shorter than twice Terron’s height, with claws, tail, and hood attached. “It is impressive. It’s not too much of a hassle to bring?” Storage was limited to what they could carry on their backs, although this was the first Zevran had seen of it.

“No?” Terron gave him that sharp, wicked grin Zevran had come to admire. The warden placed the hood over his head and slipped his hands alongside the claws.

Zevran laughed. “I see your point. That _does_ come off if you want to get anywhere. That, too,” he pointed to Terron’s armor for good measure.

There was a fist-sized bruise in the center of the warden’s chest. Had something hit him in a fight? Indicating where he wanted Terron to lay, Zevran decided the time to ask after it would come later. Perhaps about the time he set about working at the inverted nipples. He straddled the back of Terron’s hips and promptly snatched his hands away from the hard sheet of muscle.

“Good _Maker_ , man! What do you do with your shoulders?”

“ _Use_ them.”

“I _bet_.” Zevran shoved Terron’s head back down into position. This was an absolute _travesty_. How _anyone_ could walk around so was beyond Zevran. Surely there was some law against it, even in Ferelden? Loghain probably abolished it in his crusade against the Wardens. Figured. He couldn’t rid himself of them through direct means so he resorted to psychological warfare.

When Terron’s shoulders were relaxed enough for Zevran to think the warden’s body might be salvageable after all, he ventured, “You said your First did this for you?” He was still curious about the man’s upbringing with the Dalish. Still wanting to take advantage of having knowledge that could have been his so close. And wanting, more and more, to know everything he had missed of Terron’s life before he spared Zevran’s.

“Mhm. We all would. Since we all had to use our shoulders.” A teasing bite was probably meant to be part of Terron’s words, but it didn’t quite make it into his voice.

“And the Firsts, they are apprentices to your Keepers?”

“Mm. Merrill came to Sabrae during an _Arlathvhen_.”

“Oh?”

“We had no other mages. So she didn’t need to compete.”

Zevran wondered briefly what he meant, then remembered Lanaya gladly answering Lanni’s questions. “And how am I? Compared to your friend?”

Terron started to shake, and Zevran realized he was snickering at him. Terron managed to crack and eye open to answer. “Try using magic. You might manage her skills.”

Zevran deemed Terron too drowsy for anything further halfway through his task. Terron roused himself enough to wave Zevran off with an, “Always tomorrow,” before drifting back to sleep as Zevran shut the tent. He could, at least, take pride in knowing he’d given the warden a well-deserved rest.

 _Tomorrow_ didn’t happen. Mid-morning the wardens sensed darkspawn. Lanni remained behind, under protest and arguing with Wynne that she’d recovered enough from her burns to join the fight.

“We can use you to find everyone again,” Alistair assured her as the others waited for him. “That way there’s no need to worry about them going too far.”

“You’re half blind with those bandages on,” Wynne continued to try reasoning with her after the others had gone.

“I’m half blind anyway!”

The wardens returned an hour later covered in black blood. Lanni had found them a stream, thankfully, but as evening approached and someone voiced the idea of setting camp a hapless group of bandits decided this was the best group to test their luck on.

“You don’t have to,” Terron said.

“Oh, I do,” Zevran replied darkly. “The world demands you get a massage, so I will give you a massage.”

Midway through, he asked, “Would this be the first time you’ve had sex?” He’d not heard Terron telling anyone of previous lovers, but Terron was surprisingly tight-lipped about himself when not asked directly.

“Yeah.”

Zevran had to grab his shoulders to stop Terron from rolling to look at him. “Have you had other experiences?” He wanted to make sure the bit of the language barrier that still existed didn’t cause a misunderstanding. “Ones that did not go so far as we plan to?”

“No. No one’s caught my interest before.”

“I’m flattered—”

“You should be.”

“—Is there anything you’ve found you like on your own?”

Terron took a moment to answer, and Zevran could see the small twitches at the base of his ear that meant he was translating. “Uh… I’ve…the most I ever used on myself was fingers?”

“Don’t concern yourself so much with the wording,” Zevran encouraged him. “I am sure a hands-on approach will help.” He tapped the pelt by Terron’s eye to get his gaze on him as his tone turned serious. “If _anything_ I do stops it from being enjoyable, by any amount, you tell me. It will be pleasurable and it will be fun. For you, for the both of us, but mainly for you. The first time should not leave you dreading a repeating of the act.”

Nasi’s screams woke him the next morning.

“What the _sod_ is this? No! _No_!”

Zevran stuck his head out of his tent to see Nasi run backwards into hers, and the ground absolutely _covered_ in snow. He’d heard stories but the truth was far worse. It came up to Alistair and Lanni’s knees as they stood discussing the sudden snowfall. Only the vaguest shapes of tents made the camp recognizable.

“We should still have time to reach Orzammar,” Zevran heard Lanni say. “Highever’s about this altitude. Freak snows aren’t uncommon this early in the season.”

“Think it’ll have melted?”

“Oh, Maker, no. But, if the cold lasts it’ll freeze enough to walk on.”

Zevran _really_ hoped he was too far away to have heard that right.

“Might as well start making camp hospitable,” Alistair sighed. “Think Caedan’ll help if…?” They both looked over to the mage. Caedan sat some distance away on a surface cleared by magic, watching the plume of his breath and occasionally rubbing fingers of the same hand together as if to check why they were cold.

“I’ll ask him.” Alistair began to trudge across the camp. Zevran winced. “Caedan? You can say _no_ , but...”

Lanni’s hand went by her side. Panic stiffened her when the air beside her was empty. “Helios?”

The mabari burst from the surrounding trees, Terron hot on his heels. Breath steamed from the Dalish warden’s mouth as he glanced around the camp in excitement. Helios bounded through the snow, sending it up in waves when Lanni tapped her shoulders and he rushed to put giant paws there. He couldn’t lick her with the bandages taking up half her face, but she still took his massive muzzle in her hands and shook him side to side as they play-growled at one another. Lanni play-growled. Helios sounded like he was facing an ogre.

Helios dropped to the ground and rubbed the right side of his snout against the snow. He stopped to make sure Lanni was watching and repeated the motion. Lanni bent down, looked to Helios, and brought a handful of snow up to her bandages.

“Feel good?” Terron asked.

“Feels _amazing_ ,” she whispered.

“Warden!” Wynne snapped.

“Oh, this is _much_ nicer than having to shovel!” Leliana exclaimed, only having left her tent after Caedan was finished making a pathway between the tents and from each tent to the fire.

Lanni straightened as Wynne went on changing her bandages. “Oh! We’ll need to get some for winter when the snow _really_ hits.”

A muffled scream rose from Nasi’s tent. Alistair crouched at the entrance. “Nasi? It alright if I come in?”

Sitting at Lanni’s back, Zevran was close enough to hear her mutter, “Sod off, sod off, sod off, sod off…”

“Okay, I can’t tell if you’re talking about me or the weather. So don’t _hit me_.”

It took some hours of coaxing, but eventually Alistair was able get Nasi back out in the open. Leliana crossed paths with Zevran as he was of half a mind to take stock of his poisons. “What’s that you have?”

“I thought I’d share with Nasi,” Leliana showed him a wooden jar. “Since the weather’s giving her such a hard time.”

“Where did you find _honey_?”

Leliana stuck out her tongue at him. “Just because _you_ didn’t bring anything to make Ferelden food palatable.”

The sound of metal hitting metal distracted Zevran from his plans, and he joined the group watching Lanni charge Sten with a sword. Caedan leaned against the wall of snow that marked off the area. Wynne stood a bit further away, a glare letting them know exactly what she thought of the exercise. Shale had somehow been convinced to let Terron sit on their shoulders.

“Again,” the qunari would command, occasionally stopping Lanni's assault to give advice. Alistair, a sword and shield user like Lanni, joined them with his own observations. Even Nasi joined the fighters eventually, while Leliana stood among the group calling encouragements to Lanni. Zevran had yet to see Sten tire after a battle or hard day’s travel. Lanni kept up with him, however, only a thin sheen of sweat and harshness of breath showing no matter how long Sten worked her.

“Augh, so close,” Caedan uttered after Sten dodged a particularly harsh thrust.

Terron’s eyes darted to the darkening sky. “We should get the meal started.”

“I’ll help!” Leliana offered.

“As will I.” Zevran winked at her. “We might just make something edible, the two of us.”

Terron dropped from Shale and vanished to check traps he’d set that morning. Leliana explained the method of the making to Caedan as they went along. There wasn’t much difference between stews with Ferelden’s limited food variation, but he watched as intently as though this was the first time he’d seen it done. Terron reappeared a short time later with a skinned rabbit. He buried whatever parts of a kill weren’t used for their meals. Of the organs, only the intestines were left to be given to the dog along with the head.

“I almost wish we’d have to stay longer,” Terron admitted as they ate. “It’s been so long since I’ve worked on something. The pelt was wonderful to look at. A black stripe right down its spine from nose to tail. _Sa enansal_ , we call it. Any creature with such markings to stand out brings tribute to the hunter that traps them.”

“Will you not be able to find it on our way back?”

“Even if the snows allow us the same path, a wolf will have found it.”

Zevran mused over the thought. “What of that werewolf in your tent? Surely that took longer than the night we stayed with the clan?”

“It did.” Terron popped a strip of meat into his mouth. “You remember when we checked on them on our way to Denerim? They gave it to me then. They would have held it for me, since I’d claimed it.”

They bid a good night to the rest of the party and Zevran followed Terron into his tent. As Terron lit the small overhead fire, Zevran found the werewolf pelt and removed it from the pile.

“What? Don’t want it looking at you during?” Terron was smirking at him, seated in the middle of the nest of furs.

“There is nothing more mood-killing than being stabbed in the act. Well. For others, I suppose. Usually I am the one doing the stabbing.”

Terron’s smirk widened as he tilted his head in a pantomime of when he was curious. “Is it finally going to happen? Are we going to have sex?”

Zevran took a seat across from him, crossing his legs as Terron had. “I am most game, if you are.”

Terron placed a finger against his lips, which Zevran noticed appeared to be quite kissable, as he considered the assassin. “ _Zevran_. We are _not_ going another night with just a massage.”

“I won’t lie, it would be most disappointing if we did,” Zevran said with a laugh. “Since this will be your first experience, do you have a preference? For who does what?”

That finger crooked to stroke a line of vallaslin. “I’m not sure.” He shifted his weight onto an arm and rubbed the ends of his orange hair. “One’s never been put over the other when I thought about it.” He mulled over it a while longer. “Perhaps...if you were to? I _bow_ to your experience.” The teasing note was back in his voice, and Zevran gave a hearty laugh. Terron’s inflexibility when someone, usually human, thought he should bow was infamous.

Terron propped himself on his elbows as he watched Zevran work him open. Zevran _might_ have been guilty of speeding through foreplay, but given that whenever he made a conscientious attempt to linger Terron would give an impatient “Zev,” he considered it fair game. They had, after all, two entire _nights_ of foreplay under their belts. If the warden so desired Zevran would make it up to him.

By whichever set of gods he had to beg to, he hoped Terron would desire this again.

Zevran stilled instantly when, upon sliding into him, Terron gave a short hiss. “Is it uncomfortable?”

“No,” Terron squirmed reflexively as he answered. “Just...weird.”

Zevran traced his fingers up and down Terron’s stomach as he took a moment to adjust.

“Okay,” he dropped his upper body back down.

“Good?”

“Good.”

Even so, Zevran took his time rocking into the warden until Terron—quite enthusiastically—met his pace and then sped them to his own. Zevran had to focus on the texture of the furs beneath his fingers and the invasive chill of the air to not come undone too soon. It had been so long since he’d bedded someone his body threatened to slip from his control. He resisted the urge to discover how soft those lips were and instead busied himself with biting at the flesh of Terron’s shoulder. He got a hand between them and began stroking Terron’s cock, determined to get the warden to orgasm first.

He managed. Barely.

Terron slumped back onto the nest of pelts, a hand coming up to push the hair out of his face. Zevran couldn’t bring himself to pull out quite yet as he rubbed soothingly at Terron’s thighs. “Warden?”

“I—” Terron stiffened, eyes blowing open to stare past Zevran at an unseen horror. “I have second watch after Sten.”

In a truly impressive feat, Terron flipped over and zipped out from under Zevran, jumping up a moment later with his wrappings clenched in his teeth, already tightening the final clasps of his armor.

Zevran took his time cleaning the soiled spots on the furs until the voices, Terron’s apologetic and Sten’s admonishing, died away and he was sure Sten had retired for the evening. Terron sat cross-legged on a log before the fire. He was tying off the final wraps on his arms when Zevran asked, “Has he decided to let you live?”

Terron met Zevran's grin with one of his own. “Hope so.”


	4. Candlelight Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It… feels good to speak of it to someone. I swore I never would.”

Lanni jabbed two fingers at the right side of her face. “If I have to sleep in these _one more night_ , I’m—”

“I only suggested it as a precaution,” Wynne sighed. “Since you’re so _adamant_.” She began unwrapping the bandages in a familiar ritual. Lanni sat through it patiently only because it was the final one.

“How bad is it?” she asked once Wynne was done.

“It real bad,” Caedan answered. Lanni flashed him a sign of thanks as Wynne chided him. There was no need to try and spare her feelings. She’d been hit by fire from a _High Dragon_. She was lucky her skull and brain were intact.

There was no true privacy where they camped: just moments when it was more polite to ignore what was going on than others. “I could...lend you a mirror?” Leliana offered as Lanni and Caedan joined the group around the largest fire. Caedan did so by lying down on the ground behind the log where Lanni took her seat. Free of the cramped beds of the apprentice quarters he’d outgrown at thirteen, he took any excuse he got to stretch.

“I’ll pass,” Lanni said. A near imperceptible easing went through the group. It was _real_ bad. Even after several months of healing, the entire area retained a sheen that made it look as though her flesh was still melting. It was obvious part of her hair would never grow back, and a deep divot in her shoulder remained where the metal of her armor had fused with the skin and needed to be carved away.

“Shame about your eye,” Nasi commented. Leliana and Alistair slapped their hands over her mouth. There were just enough contours in the skin to know where the eye socket had been.

“S’fine. I’m already used to it.”

Nasi spat a few curses at Alistair and Leliana for good measure when they released her.

“How is your hearing?” Zevran asked kindly.

“It’s...different?” Lanni tipped her head side-to-side she considered her answer. “I can _hear_ , but it’s a bit...muffled. Like everything’s coming from the other side of a door.”

“That is bad,” Zevran pointed out. “As far as my understanding of humans goes.”

Lanni _tsked_ , resting her chin in a hand as she glared at the sparks rising from the fire. “Better track down the Archdemon soon. Before I’m blind and deaf at twenty.”

Caedan turned his head. “Is that how old you are?”

“Nineteen. My birthday’s at the start of summer.”

“I just turned twenty! A few days before we left Orzammar!”

“You should have said!” Leliana leaned across Nasi to grab Alistair’s shoulder. “We’d have found a way to celebrate!”

“I forgot. You know what time was like down there.”

“Maker, how long _were_ we down there?” Lanni asked. “Six months?”

“Uh, _we_ were down there six months. _You three_ ,” Terron indicated Lanni and Caedan with a swiveled ear and Alistair with a pointed finger, “were up in the Diamond Quarter.”

“They left,” Alistair said helpfully.

“You left.”

“And now we have money,” Lanni reminded him.

“Money’s not going to start being a concern of mine just because you _shemlen_ like coins.”

“I had to go back to the Tower to get us those coins,” Caedan interjected. “So I think I’d have preferred the Deep Roads.”

“Go fight a Broodmother and say that to my face,” Nasi said menacingly.

“None of you will tell me what a Broodmother is!”

“How old are you, Terron?” Leliana asked loudly.

He looked back down to the block of wood he was working into the shape of a bear. “You all count years by the sun, right? Give me a minute.”

“What do you use?” Nasi asked. Orzammar had long ago lost its own calendar to its reliance on Surfacer merchants. The first time Nasi had ever heard of it had been when Rica told her Nobles still used it.

Terron leveled his gaze at her. “The _moons_.” He made it sound so obvious she briefly thought _everyone_ should.

“Are they that different?” Zevran wondered.

“Doubt it. Just easier.”

“How about you?” Lanni prompted Nasi.

“Twenty six.” Rica kept track.

Leliana beamed. “Then we’re the same age!”

“Thank the _fucking_ Maker I’m not the oldest,” Caedan groaned. People might go expecting things like responsibility. “Twenty four,” he threw out before anyone could ask.

“Ah, then I would be right between you three,” Zevran noted, then added with a laugh, “At least, I believe so.”

“Seventeen.”

The entire camp fell silent as the group around the fire stared at Terron. Nasi broke it with a faint-sounding, “Took you that long to count seventeen?”

“I don’t, usually. I had to remember how many winters since I got my _vallaslin_.”

Another effect of Lanni’s burns was that, if she didn’t focus on enunciation, her words slurred. “When _did_ you get your _vallaslin_ , Terron?”

“Two years ago.”

“That young!?” Alistair exclaimed.

At the same time, an ashen-faced Zevran asked, “Is that a usual age?”

Terron gave Alistair a narrow-eyed look before answering Zevran with a shrug. “It’s younger than most.” A tinge of pride entered his voice when he reminded them, “ _Vallaslin_ are our rites of entering adulthood. The Keeper wouldn’t have marked me if the clan didn’t think I was ready.”

Caedan, never one for half-assed shenanigans, seized his chance. Propping himself on an elbow, he hurled accusingly over the fire, “Good Maker, Zevran, he’s a _baby_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Terron's Calling starts four years after the Blight and the second chapter takes place before he's thirty.


	5. Antivan Bad Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ohhh, yes, yes. But it is not so bad, in truth. If you like, I could give you one. I learned a bit of the art myself in Antiva.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll save you some brain strain this all takes place before chapter three.

When they’d taken perhaps ten steps into the forest Zevran asked, “If it does not offend, the woman who was once part of your clan... Vana? Why did she call you Mahariel when the others called you Sabrae?”

“Sabrae is my clan,” there was pride in Terron’s voice. “Mahariel was the clan of my mother.”

“So in other clans you use your clan’s name. But those of—or once of, as it were—your own use the name of your mother’s?”

Terron traced one of the lines of his tattoo as he thought. “There’s a saying among the People. _The child follows the mother_? If that’s how it’s said in the Trade tongue.”

Zevran made some noise of acknowledgement. When he had tried to follow _his_ mother, he had wound up fleeing back to the familiarity of the city and the Crows. Only being bought had stopped him from following her into prostitution.

“So my clan uses Mahariel,” Terron went on. “Sabrae raised me, so it’s what other Dalish use.”

“Is that why you told us it’s Mahariel?” Alistair asked.

“That’s right.” Of the group, Terron seemed the least fazed by having no true privacy amongst them. After seeing the Dalish camp Zevran understood why.

“So is it Mahariel Sabrae?” Alistair continued.

“Sabrae Mahariel. The birth clan comes first.”

Wondering how true the Dalish saying was, Zevran asked, “Is there more you took from her?” Seeing Terron’s confused look he amended, “That makes you follow her?”

“I look like her. You saw Vana? She looks like most of Sabrae.” Zevran nodded. Terron’s skin was a warm umber darker than Zevran’s own. “I am told she was a skilled hunter—”

“Told?”

“She died soon after I was born. My father before her.” Terron shrugged, sounding as matter-of-fact as he did about Ferelden’s weather.

 _Ah. A kindred spirit._ Though it did raise the question, “How did Sabrae come to have you?”

“I thought…” This time Terron’s shrug made it look as though he were physically ridding himself of the question. “The truth of their deaths was only told to me when I left to join the Wardens. How the decision was reached was not.”

“ _You_ never asked what happened to them?” Zevran and Alistair demanded in tandem. Despite how recently he’d joined the group, it was impossible for Zevran to imagine Terron without questions.

“ _Course_ I asked.” He gave them a sneer too good-humored to be taken seriously. “They never answered until then.”

 _Cruel,_ Zevran thought.

“That’s rude of them,” Alistair said.

“The clan did what they thought best. We don’t like our _da’len_ growing up knowing pain.”

Sten spoke, surprising Zevran. “Your children are raised together?”

“Is that how _you’re_ raised?” Terron sped forward to walk beside the qunari, and Zevran almost pitied him.

* * *

“Is there a special meaning behind your tattoos?”

“My what?”

Zevran pointed to his own. “Your markings?”

“Is _that_ what you and Alistair have been talking about?” Terron finished tying off his pack. “They’re called _vallaslin_. The ones on our faces, anyway. There is, but would you mind waiting for an answer? It’s a lot I haven’t had to translate yet.”

“Not at all,” Zevran agreed readily. “I only ask because I know they signify becoming an adult.”

“What about yours?”

“There are. The ones on my face hold sacred meaning to the Crows.”

Terron wore a look Zevran was used to seeing directed at Caedan. “Sacred?”

“Mmm, perhaps not in its intended purpose. Something sacred has a deep meaning. Leliana, for instance. The Maker, and all there is to do with Him, are sacred to her.”

Terron’s face brightened, and his ears perked forward. “That’s what the _vallaslin_ is! It represents our gods!”

Zevran had to wait to find out which design was which god’s. They were off to Denerim—a fact that had made Lanni swear quite colorfully—to hunt down Genitivi himself in the hopes they could find a legend. The closer they got to the city the further they strayed from the roads. Terron was needed to ensure they stayed on course.

“Most of the _vallaslin_ have more than one design,” Terron explained during their watch that night. He’d taken a thin stick from the woodpile and cleared a space in the dirt before the fire. “Part of the ceremony is not showing pain. An adult knows how to handle the difficulties of the world. The blood is—”

“Blood?”

“It’s what _vallaslin_ means. Blood writing,” Terron flipped his arm to show Zevran a small scar across the basilic vein. “It’s mostly ink. The Keeper only takes enough to mix with the supply the clan already has. The blood is added before the ceremony so a hunter is linked to their clan and the People. The most complex of the designs is Elgar’nan’s, Eldest of the Sun.”

Zevran shifted closer as Terron drew each of the vallaslin and explained which god they stood for. Mythal: the Protector and the one with the most design variation. Andruil, the Huntress and her sister Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper. Of June, Master of Crafts, and of Ghilan’nain, Mother of the Halla.

“Falon’Din,” Terron pointed to his face. “is the Friend of the Dead. Before the gods were sealed away, he guided them to the Beyond.” Terron’s smile fell as he smoothed the last over and drew the next design. “His twin brother, Dirthamen, is the Keeper of Secrets. Twins are a blessing to us, because they show Falon’Din and Dirthamen’s favor. If a hunter has the _vallaslin_ of one, then they have a twin soul with the _vallaslin_ of the other.”

_Where’s yours?_

It was so easy talking with Terron that Zevran almost let the question slip. The warden had certainly paused as though he were expecting it. When Zevran didn’t ask, Terron continued.

“The Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel, is the one who sealed away the Creators. He has no _vallaslin_ because of this transgression. However, he also sealed away the Forgotten Ones. He is a trickster who walks his own path.”

* * *

Lanni stared down at the body, then turned to Caedan. “Fuck you.”

“I didn’t know!”

“ _Fuck you_!”

“How was I supposed to know she could turn into a High Dragon? Terron’s friends with Morrigan! Did _he_ know she could turn into a High Dragon?”

“Are we here to get a book or what?” Nasi demanded, stomping between the two to get to the small hut’s door.

Zevran thought _friends_ might be stretching the relationship Morrigan had with anyone. Although she _was_ joined in looking down her nose at civilization by Terron and Nasi both. He stepped around the serpentine neck, not entirely convinced it would not move again and end its charade, and approached Terron as he cut out a chunk of flesh containing one of his arrows.

“What was that you called her? When she asked who you thought she was?”

Terron’s voice was as dark as it had been when he answered Flemeth. “Asha’bellanar. She helps the People, at times, for later favors.” There was a hint of relief in his eyes when he looked down at the scales. “Helped.”

When they returned to camp Lanni headed straight for Morrigan with the grimoire. “Did you know your mother could turn into a High Dragon?”

“A _what_?”

“Never mind.” She pushed the book onto Morrigan.

“Was I right?” Caedan called, standing safely behind Alistair. “Lanni threatened me. She knows how I feel about someone in armor threatening me, and she threatened me.”

“I’m not threatening you,” Lanni said in a voice that was a tad too calm.

“You still have the other half of your face!”

Nasi’s voice rose from her tent. “Some of us want to sleep!”

Dinner was a hushed, somber affair. On the following morning they would reach Ostagar. The wardens seemed too restless to retire, but one by one they disappeared until Terron was the only one left at the fire.

“I was wondering,” Zevran began. His question had been weighing on him some time: a childish part of himself worrying that the answer would be what cut him off inexorably from his mother’s people. “What is Arlathan?”

Terron’s ears pivoted as he thought, but his eyes didn’t leave the fire. “Where is Antiva?”

For a moment the question had Zevran stumped. “Ah! Of course, I never told you. It lies to the north, across the sea, on the other side of the Free Marches.”

“And, you know how to return?”

“Yes?”

Terron nodded. “Lanni can’t go there now, but before Ostagar fell she spoke of returning home with her brother.” At first Zevran was surprised to learn she had one. Then he remembered that the lawful sister who had taught her Antivan would necessitate a sibling of some kind. “Lothering’s gone, but there’s a Chantry in every village if Leliana wants to find one. Once we go to Orzammar Nasi will know how to get there on the Surface.”

“That’s...true.”

“Where do I go?”

Zevran blinked. Terron’s eyes traced the paths of smoke into the sky.

“My clan will have gone north. Because that’s away from the Blight. Once the Archdemon’s been defeated I’d like to see them again. But, there’s a lot of north.” He looked at Zevran. “ _That’s_ what Arlathan is. A place we can leave and know where to return. A home.”


	6. Bloodstained Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I haven’t been this hurt in… well, ever!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Ferelden everyone gets one free hypothermia sick fic.

Honnleath was, unfortunately, not Haven. Honnleath had never even _heard_ of Haven, and when asked if Genitivi had been in the area the residents had responded with, “Here?” Which, Zevran agreed, would be a miracle indeed if they found the remains of the most holy of women in the ass-end of the ass-end of Thedas.

“If it’s this deep in the Frostbacks they’d have to at least know traders who visit the town,” Lanni mused as she looked over a map of the area Mathias had given them.

“You know?” Caedan had lifted an edge of the map to look down at the one they had of Ferelden. “I never learned why it was called Kinloch Hold. I asked,” he said at the look on Lanni’s face, “but you know how it is. Templars are, _don’t ask about things that don’t concern you_ , and instructors are, _just because_ you _find healing uninteresting_.”

“Do you...want to know?”

“Do _you_?”

“It’s from before King Calenhad. _Kin_ was the name of the area, and _loch_ is the Alamarri word for lake.”

“Is that _it_? Think I’d been asking how to tear the walls down, the way they went on about it.”

Lanni sighed down at the more detailed map once again before rolling both to be put away.

“Further in?” Alistair checked.

“Further in.”

These mountains would be the death of Zevran. It was still late summer, he was almost sure, but the air was so cold and thin each breath was a stab. A good inch of snow covered the ground and trees. “It’s not so bad,” Alistair had told those of them not used to Ferelden’s weather. Then he’d told them how bad it _could_ get, and Zevran wondered if he hadn’t, perhaps, been spared after all. Perhaps Terron and Lanni had individually decided it would be better to torture him first, and had merely lucked out that neither had needed to speak the idea aloud for the other to understand.

A fine joke, and one sure to get a laugh out of Terron if Zevran had a chance of getting his attention back from their new golem companion. Maybe Lanni was in the mood for dark humor. She could certainly use a laugh after how tense she’d been since Redcliffe. Although, maybe those same events had soured her and morbid wasn’t the way to go about it. The thought made him pause in his stride.

_Crrr-ack._

No sooner had Zevran heard it than the ground fell from beneath him. He had half a second’s realization before he plunged into water. The frigid cold nearly knocked the breath he’d managed to take from him. He looked up, but the water was so dark he couldn’t tell where he’d broken through. Panic welled in him at the thought that it had already frozen over. Calm replaced it. Hadn’t he, after all, come to Ferelden to die?

A strong set of hands grabbed him and pulled him up into the air, dragging him to his feet and away from the ice as Terron yelled something about a fire. He was turned, the hands on him were Terron’s, though for some reason the warden’s hair was stuck-up and frosted over. How had—

“ _Zevran_.” Terron grabbed the back of his head and angled it so their eyes met. It occurred to him that Terron’s mouth had been moving. The Dalish man’s eyes searched his before he said calmly, “We need to get you into a tent before you freeze. It done?”

Zevran wondered belatedly what _it_ was, and how he was to know, but Lanni’s voice answered “get in,” and Terron was helping him walk. Well and truly helping him, for Zevran’s legs had forgotten how to keep him moving and upright at the same time. It was dark inside, dark enough Zevran would have thought he was still underwater if not for Terron’s voice.

“Your clothes are wet so they’ll need to come off.”

Zevran thought of telling him he didn’t need the pretense to get Zevran naked. Then Terron was removing Zevran’s clothing and he had a larger concern. “You’ll...get poisoned. My britches…”

“Fascinating.”

There was a slight tug at his waist and his pants were falling from his hips. “Get under the blankets,” Terron told him. As he did so, a slant of light entered the tent as Terron stuck his head out. “Fire ready, yet?” He came back in holding a flame that must have been enchanted, for he held it in his hands before setting it down by Zevran’s head. It bathed his face in a soft light that warmed where it touched. Blue and yellow flames curled around each other and captivated Zevran until he felt the blankets move and Terron pressed up against him, nude as Zevran.

“Stay still,” Terron told him, voice still mild as he pushed Zevran’s shoulders back down. He adjusted the blankets around them until only their faces were showing.

“What...”

“So you don’t freeze. It _can_ kill you, you know.”

Did he know? There had been a moment, in the water, but he had assumed it would be by drowning. He pictured freezing to death something that happened in the dead of night, a quiet and lonely end. Not done with the sun shining and others nearby. A deep shudder ran through him.

“Don’t _stop_.” The frost in Terron’s hair was melting. It clung to his face, sending droplets to outline his features. “Shivering’s a good thing.”

“This...what is this?”

Terron made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, and water flew off the tip of an ear. “I’m not sure the _shemlen_ term for it. We call it the freezing sickness. The body gets too cold for sustaining itself.”

“So, you are here...to keep me warm?”

“It’s the best way.”

“And the best way includes you being nude?”

A grin appeared on Terron’s face. “Sorry. If you wanted someone else your time for choosing has passed. How do you feel?” Zevran was shivering in earnest, now.

“ _Cold_. Tired.”

Terron’s face tipped from amused to apologetic. “You need to stay awake. Until your heart can rest without stopping.”

_Let it stop._

Terron gave him a rude nudge. “Tell me about Antiva.”

Zevran managed a low chuckle. “What is there left for me to tell?”

“What do you miss the most?”

“The leather,” Zevran said after a moment of thought. Terron made a sound that was both question and prompt. “There is a particular smell to it that the crafts of all other nations do not possess. I was raised near such a tannery.” An image popped into his head. “There was a pair of boots I had my eyes on. But, by the time I could afford them, I was on my way to Ferelden.”

“No saying you can’t get them when you go back.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Terron was, truly, a cruel man: not letting Zevran sleep until Wynne inspected him. Even though by then they had warmed enough Terron had let his own shoulders slip from beneath the covers. And that was another cruelty. Being so enticingly handsome but leaving Zevran with limbs pinned by the blankets, unable to touch him.

When he woke, the magical fire was near out and Terron was sewing the waistband of Zevran’s pants. He tossed them over casually. “Here you go. Had to cut them so you’d let me get them off you. Are my ears okay?”

“What am I looking for?” Zevran asked as Terron flattened them so Zevran could get a proper look.

“If the color’s off. Red, or darker than my skin is.” They looked fine, although Zevran added that he couldn’t be entirely sure.

The blankets were Lanni’s, which he might have guessed given how they and now he rank of dog. Her concern was too genuine for him to feel right in being offended. “How are you feeling?”

“Quite well! I see how you can be so dead to the world when you sleep, with such comfort.”

“They look fine,” Alistair told Terron as Terron’s ears snapped back to their usual, relaxed position.

“Thanks, _lethallin_.”

“...What’s _lethallin_ mean?”

“ _Nothing_!” Terron screeched.

While they’d been holed up, the edges of the water had been surveyed with the conclusion of small lake. Which, everyone was in agreement, they could have been warned about.

“Would the Wardens like to go back?” Shale offered in their voice that sounded as though it echoed. “I could crush their heads!”

“The Dalish Warden agrees.”

Nasi settled it with a grim, “On our way back.”

“‘Tis surprising,” Morrigan observed some time after they’d gotten on their way, “that those from the Circle not only know about hypothermia, but also how to treat it.”

“The Templars sometimes return with it,” Wynne explained, a note of warriness hidden behind her patience. “As do newcomers who aren’t from Ferelden.”

“Oh? Not telling her about the times we get it? That’s alright, I’m more than happy to.”

“Amell—”

“You noticed how warm it was when we were there? The Templars don’t like being chilly.” Caedan continued to ignore Wynne’s next warning. “Sometimes, despite not doing _anything wrong_ , the Templars decide to chuck you in the dungeons. It’s a few hours until the First Enchanter finds out, the Templars don’t care how cold it gets down there, they cleanse your magic so you can’t warm yourself…”

“I highly doubt interrupting—”

“—For doing _nothing wrong_. First Enchanter adores you enough and along with getting out of there, you’re no longer required to attend the Knight-Lieutenant's monthly lectures on how you, personally, caused the moral decay of Thedas.”

Terron gently elbowed Zevran’s side and angled his ears towards the trees. A trio of wolves was watching their group. Two turned and padded further into the woods at the elves’ gazes, but the third remained. As it eyed them in return, lean muscles on a hungry frame with eyes that spoke of a world just outside Zevran’s knowing, he realized what Terron had reminded him of in the dark. Then he blinked, and the wolf was gone.


End file.
